


suffering too terrible to name

by shinelikestars



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Wakes & Funerals, connor and evan dated over the summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 07:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11709681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinelikestars/pseuds/shinelikestars
Summary: in a quiet town in new york, a seventeen-year-old boy named connor commits suicide. and in the wake of his passing, there is suffering too terrible to name. his parents suffer, of course, as they process the tragic loss of their firstborn. his peers suffer as they struggle to understand what could lead their classmate to such a violent end, as they struggle to understand the impact they might have had on him.but some of the worst kinds of suffering come from the sister and the boyfriend he left behind, as she attempts to reconcile the monster of recent years past with the protective older brother of her younger days, and as he tries to learn how to live with a piece missing from his heart.(aka the one in which connor and evan were secret summer boyfriends, but connor still dies, and zoe and evan both do their best to cope with their different kinds of grief.)





	suffering too terrible to name

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from "It's Quiet Uptown" from the musical Hamilton.
> 
> i wrote this at 1 in the morning after a long work day, so apologies if it's shitty.
> 
> i hope you enjoy. 
> 
> tw: lots of talk of suicide

When Evan Hansen learns about Connor Murphy’s death, he forgets how to breathe.

 

He has to fight not to empty the contents of his stomach right then and there, presses a hand to his mouth to hold back the small keening sound that would otherwise escape. A wave of nausea hits him so hard that he can’t tell whether it’s the sickness or the grief that makes him double over, incoherent mumbles of Connor’s name crossing his lips as the shattered parents across from him look on in fright. 

 

“Are you alright, Evan?” Mr. Murphy asks, brow furrowed.

 

Mrs. Murphy scoffs through her tears. “Look at him, he can barely even breathe, of course he’s not alright, Larry. I think we need to call Principal Howard in here and get him to the nurse.” 

 

He blacks out.

 

He wakes up with a letter by his side.

 

Evan doesn’t have to look to know what it says.

 

\--

 

When Zoe Murphy learns about Connor Murphy’s death, it’s almost like remembering how to breathe again, like taking a long inhale of air after sixteen years of no oxygen at all. 

 

She gets the call in the middle of jazz band rehearsal. Normally, she doesn’t look at her phone during rehearsal, but it’d been the first day back and she was so used to having her ringer on from the summer that she’d forgotten to turn it off. So she’d answered, and the first thing she’d heard was a loud, piercing wail from the other side. " _Zoe_ , ” her mother had sobbed. “ _Your brother, Zoe, oh, God_ _ — _ "

 

Her father had taken over then, grabbing the phone from his hysterical wife to explain that Zoe needed to get someone to drive her to Mercy Hospital, that he’d meet her at the entrance. His words had been smooth and carefully chosen, but Zoe hadn’t missed the thread of desperation that ran through his tone, the sharp edge of urgency that said,  “ _Now, Zoe, you need to get here_ now.”

 

So they’d said their goodbyes, and she’d tucked her phone into her back pocket. Put her guitar down, zipped it into its case, made sure the strap was facing the right way out — every movement calm, measured, precise. Raised her hand and asked her teacher to excuse her for the rest of rehearsal today, please, she’d had a family emergency. Left the room, all too aware of the countless eyes on her back, and walked, not ran, to the junior parking lot. Got into her car, turned the key in the ignition, and drove to the hospital. 

 

Another suicide attempt from Connor had been a long time coming, and Zoe had honestly expected to feel more panicked than this. She’d expected to feel this intense need to get to the hospital, to get to her brother’s side and say whatever she’d kept tucked beneath her tongue for the past three years. 

 

And when she’d found out that it wasn’t just an attempt — that Connor had actually succeeded — she’d expected tears. She sat there for a couple seconds, just blinking, waiting for that cool dampness to spread across her cheeks. Her mom was definitely crying, the tears obvious even from a mile away, big, fat ones, rolling down her face and falling onto her jeans. 

 

So here she is, the doctor attempting to comfort her parents, quietly suggesting to her father that his wife might be in need of slight sedation as her mother’s screams ring in their ears, and Zoe’s just. Sitting here. Staring at the Sharpie stars on the cuffs of her jeans, on the whites of her Converse, and wondering if the emotions she’s supposed to be experiencing will ever kick in. Is she going to feel sad, at some point? Is she going to feel some deep sense of loss, or some kind of unbearable agony? Because, honestly, if she digs around hard enough in her brain, the only feeling she can come up with is anger. Anger at her brother, for replacing what should’ve been her carefree teenage years with worry and that awful sort of anticipation, the anticipation of conflict, of distance, of disaster. Anger at her brother, for never even trying to apologize, for barely even trying to get better. Anger at her brother, for tearing the relationship her parents once had apart, for tearing the relationship  they  once had apart.  _ ZoeandConnor_, they used to call themselves, not taking a single breath between the words because they were that close. For the past three years, it’s always firmly been Zoe and Connor, the spaces there, evident, clear, because with every dent added to her door, with every insult hurled her way, with every defensive retort she’d thrown right back, that’d been another million miles of distance put between them. 

 

Zoe remembers there being periods where he wouldn’t leave his room for a week, and she’d, sometimes, start to forget what he really looked like. 

 

Five years from now, she bets she’ll have forgotten again.

∞

Connor is supposed to have freckles.

 

Evan’s staring at the pale, waxy face in the casket, and all he can think is that Connor is supposed to have freckles, scattered like constellations across his cheeks, dotting the bridge of his nose, sprinkled under his eyes.

 

The funeral makeup must have hidden them, he thinks, and then he shivers, because how much else of Connor has been hidden in his death? 

 

( _The real parts_ , his brain tells him, because he’s heard the way Cynthia and Larry Murphy have talked about their son today, and it seems like they’ve erased any sign of his struggle. There’s been no mention of mental illness, no indication of any effort on Connor’s part to get better, no stories of the years of conflict or the attempts that had, like macabre milestones, marked his high school years. Evan knows these parts because Connor had shared them with him, under an oak tree at Ellison State Park, on the edge of Evan’s worn plaid comforter, at the top of a hill in an abandoned apple orchard. Evan knows these parts because they were what haunted Connor most, every single one of his vulnerabilities, and they’d been something he’d had to accept in dating Connor, in loving him.)

 

(Evan knows that these parts have never bothered him beyond the extent to which they’d hurt Connor. These parts could never have bothered him, not when Connor had so willingly accepted Evan’s own flaws and mistakes.)

 

Evan hasn’t worn this suit since his grandmother had died his freshman year, and it’s just a little too tight on him. It’s itchy, the cheap wool scratchy, and the funeral home is surprisingly warm (though that could just be his nerves causing him to overheat). 

 

Connor’s suit, on the other hand, looks like it’s too big for him — a last-minute purchase, Evan supposes, since he vaguely remembers Connor mentioning his lack of suits in the past, how he’d thrown out the ones his mom had purchased for him after he hadn’t been invited to a single bar mitzvah in seventh grade. It’s navy blue. If not for the sickly pallor death has left him with, Evan thinks that maybe it would’ve looked okay. Nice, even.

 

He wants to get out of here, escape the crushing weight of the grief all around him so he can just be alone with his own (which is heavy enough), but the Murphys invited him to a reception at their house afterward, and he hadn’t been able to say no to Cynthia Murphy, not when the tear tracks were still visible on her cheeks.

 

He looks back at Connor. His mother had kissed his forehead earlier, when they’d first filed in for the funeral, and it’s left a pink mark.

 

Evan would rub it away, but. He doesn’t think he can handle touching Connor, not like this, when it’s not really even Connor, just a shell of what once was. If he touches him, he knows he’ll only find iciness there, and then that will be the memory that sticks, not the millions of touches before that, the warmth of an alive Connor’s fingers in his, the softness of a hand brushing against his, the gentleness of a kiss.

 

There is nothing warm or gentle or soft about the body in the casket.

 

So Evan lets the mark stay.

—

Connor’s hair is supposed to be down.

 

There’s a part of Zoe that’s aware she’s supposed to be freaked out over this, supposed to be brought to her knees by the sight of her older brother in a coffin, but she’s. Just not. And since, unlike her mother, her mind isn’t currently overwhelmed by convulsive sobs and the flood of strangers who have come to witness that, all Zoe can do is observe.

 

And right off the bat, the first thing she observes is that someone — her father, she’d suspect — had instructed the funeral home to tie Connor’s hair back. At this angle, the people who haven’t seen him since he was little probably don’t even suspect that, at the time of his death, his hair brushed his collarbone, neared the tops of his shoulders. That sounds like something Larry would want, she thinks bitterly.

 

And she’s surprised by that. Because why would she care? Why does it matter to her if they keep Connor’s hair down or tied back or in a fucking French braid, why the hell not? Why is there a part of her that rears its ugly head and snarls at Larry’s decision to tame his dead son’s image just a little bit? Why should it matter to her? Why has a hairstyle temporarily diverted her anger from the person who threatened her for years? 

 

(Maybe because it’s not an authentic picture. )

 

(Maybe because Zoe is so sick of them pretending. Pretending to be the perfect Stepford family. Too bad they’re missing the white picket fence — Connor had taken out a good chunk of that in seventh grade when Larry had confiscated his pack of Marlboros.)

 

At least Connor doesn’t have to pretend anymore. Can’t pretend when you’re dead.

 

Ah, who is she kidding. He’d never tried to pretend in the first place. He’d only been the subject of her parents’ frustration when he’d refused to play along with their stupid game of perfection.

 

That, at least, is something Zoe can remember liking about him. 

∞

There are a lot of people at this reception, Evan realizes as he steps through the front door.

 

He’s only been to the Murphy house a couple of times, snuck in by Connor when he’d been sure his parents and sister wouldn’t be home, but the sheer size of the place has always stuck out to him before. Now, it seems small in comparison to the crowds of New York’s finest milling about. It feels like the entire state has turned out for this reception, probably due to Larry Murphy’s connections — and that’s weird, because when Connor was actually alive, only about four people in all of New York state had seemed to care about his existence. Now that his existence has been cut short, the remaining 19,750,000 members of the population apparently want to pretend to care. 

 

Evan can’t pinpoint exactly when he got so bitter. Connor would be proud, he thinks.

 

He spots Connor’s parents in the corner, Larry chatting animatedly with a man in a gray suit while Cynthia stares blankly ahead, a glass of wine in her hand. Evan tears his gaze away as quickly as he can — if they see him, they’ll want to say hi, and that’s not something he’s emotionally prepared for. He’ll end up saying the wrong thing, undoubtedly insulting the carefully-crafted memory of Connor they’ve developed, and then his dead boyfriend’s parents will hate him for the rest of his life, and wouldn’t that just be fucking great. 

 

Evan can’t exactly pinpoint when he started cursing so much, either. Again, Connor would be proud.

 

There’s a tap on his shoulder, and Evan starts at the unexpected contact, nearly spilling the cup of water he’s clutched like a lifeline since his arrival as he turns to the source of the tap. Alana Beck, poised and proper in a neatly-pressed cardigan and skirt, stands there. “Sorry, Evan,” she says, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

 

“Oh, i-it’s okay, Alana—”

 

She barrels right over him, continuing, “I just wanted to check up on you, see how you’re doing. I’m sure losing Connor has been very hard for you — as it’s been for the entire community, of course, but especially since you were so close.”

 

Evan can see the curiosity in her eyes, and he instantly understands what’s going on here. Somehow, some way — and he’s too tired to find out how — someone at school has clued Alana in to Connor and Evan’s relationship, and now he’ll join Zoe in the spotlight, at the center of everyone’s overbearing sympathy. 

 

They’ll talk about what a tragedy it was, how they’ll all feel Connor’s absence for years to come, but — they have no right to. Not when the majority of the school contributed to Connor’s feeling of isolation, when they whispered about him in the hallways and branded him the next national headline, a future school shooter. They have no right to tell him or Zoe they’re sorry when they played a part in it.

 

And with that thought, it’s like all the energy drains right out of Evan’s body, whatever remaining patience he’d had left to deal with Alana dissipating in seconds. His shoulders slump, his breath comes out in one long sigh, and all he can manage to do is mumble a quick " _UmIhavetogosorrybye_ "  in Alana’s general direction before his brain’s screaming at him to get out, and instead of slipping out the front door like a normal person, he’s scrambling up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

 

Stopping outside Connor’s room.

 

Except he’s not faced with the usual “STAY OUT — PRIVATE PROPERTY” sign displayed on Connor’s door.

 

Because the door is open.

—

It is the reception for her dead seventeen-year-old son, her dead seventeen-year-old son who committed  suicide , and Cynthia Murphy is  _laughing_.

 

Zoe has never hated her mother before, but this is probably the closest she’s come to it. 

 

Her mother, diamond earrings glinting in the light and likely taking someone’s eye out, chuckles softly at Susan Harris’s stupid joke (about God only knows what — Zoe hasn’t been paying attention) and tucks a strand of hair behind her hair, and Zoe almost hates her for it.

 

But then her mother murmurs, “Connor would’ve liked that,” and her face turns pained again, and all the fury in Zoe’s body turns to emptiness. 

 

Emptiness. She still hasn’t quite gotten a hold on the sadness thing yet. 

 

Then Brian Harris chimes in, “Connor was, like, a total genius, he was just too high to care about school, but he could’ve been super fuckin’ smart,” and Susan pinches him for it, and the two women start chatting about Connor’s intelligence, and the anger comes back. And Zoe wants out.

 

Leaving through the back door would be too obvious, and they’d hear her car in the driveway if she tried to really escape, anyway, so Zoe takes the stairs. 

 

As she walks away, she catches a faint remark from Susan, something stupid comparing Connor toa Shakespearean play. 

 

Zoe scowls. Let them reminisce about Connor’s“misunderstood genius” over fair trade coffee and overpriced water crackers from the Trader Joe’s down the street. She’ll be in her room, thinking about the kind of person he actually was — a shitty one. 

 

But then, as she reaches the top of the stairs, her body practically in autopilot at this point, her feet lead her somewhere she hadn’t meant to go.

 

Her brother’s room.

 

The door is closed tight, the “STAY OUT” sign glaring red in Zoe’s face, but the doorknob is shiny, probably recently polished by her mother in an attempt to keep busy, and it almost feels like an invitation.

 

So she takes it.

∞

“What the fuck are you doing in here?”

 

Evan hadn’t noticed the girl curled up on Connor’s bed before, but now he certainly does, an angry Zoe Murphy coming into view as he skids to a stop, just a few feet from the edge of the bed.

 

“S-sorry, Zoe, I-I can go, I-I know I shouldn’t be in here—” he starts to stammer, but Zoe quickly sits up and, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her dress, looks at him.

 

“No, shit, I’m sorry, Evan. That was a dick move on my part. It’s just — been a long day, y’know?” She pauses, lets out a little sigh, then pats the empty space next to her. “Here, you can sit if you want.”

 

“Um—” Evan takes a step towards the bed, then hesitates. “Were you crying? N-not like I’m, uh, gonna judge you or anything, b-but—”

 

Zoe laughs, and normally Evan’s used to that being a pretty sound, but this time it comes out harsh and hollow, not at all the Zoe Murphy he knows. “No offense, but asking someone at a funeral reception if they’re crying is a pretty dumb question.” 

 

“You’re right, s-sorry, I’m gonna go now—”

 

“Wait.” Zoe’s fingers curl around his elbow, and there’s a pleading in her tone that makes Evan instantly listen. “Can you just — stay, maybe? It’s just, this reception is so dumb, these people are so dumb, and I’d like to think I’m not the only person here who recognizes that. So can you just humor me for a second? We don’t have to talk, I just—” She falters, stumbling briefly in her words, but Evan doesn’t need her to finish that sentence.

 

“I-I can stay,” he says, and Zoe smiles.

 

“Thank you.”

 

—

There’s a lot she doesn’t understand about Evan Hansen.

 

She doesn’t understand why he liked ( _loved?_  hell, she doesn’t know) her brother so much. She doesn’t understand how he put up with the anger, or the depression, or the drug addiction, how he dealt with all of that when even the people who were genetically pre-dispositioned to love him the most eventually grew weary of it, couldn’t keep up any longer. She doesn’t understand why he’s so kind, so sweet, how he can be that when it seems like the world has tried its hardest to beat him down. She doesn’t understand why he listens, why he actually comes and sits with her and pretends like this isn’t the first time she’s showed actual emotion in a week, why he cares. 

 

But she does understand that he’s here, and that he’s trying. 

 

So that’s enough. 

 

—

There’s a lot he doesn’t understand about Zoe Murphy.

 

He doesn’t understand her relationship with Connor. He doesn’t understand how she can shoulder the weight of it all, how she doesn’t have some kind of daily breakdown when he consistently loses his shit over the possibility of talking to the delivery guy. He doesn’t understand the way she can just shut it off, just shove her emotions down somewhere he can’t see and do what needs to be done, why it seems like she doesn’t seem to grasp that she’s allowed to have feelings, too.

 

But he does understand that she’s here, and that she’s trying. Trying to hold it together for everyone, when he can’t even hold it together for himself. Trying to sort through her emotions, little by little, when she gets the chance to, when his just always come pouring out all at once.

 

So he can appreciate that. And that’s enough.

 

∞

They don’t really understand each other. 

 

But they understand that, at some point, they each loved Connor. They understand that they’re both grieving, albeit in entirely different ways. 

 

They understand that they each got to see a side of Connor the other never did.

 

They don’t really understand each other, but maybe, through Connor, they can start to one day.

 

And for now, that can get them through.


End file.
